“No way.” She turned the pancakes and he came up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist. She wanted to push him away but she couldn’t find the strength, or the desire. He dragged her closer, nestling her buttocks between his legs, allowing her to feel that he was already aroused. Deep inside she sensed a dangerous warmth spreading through her bloodstream. “Jay, don’t—” she started to protest, then stopped. Because she wanted him. That was the simple and horrid truth.

He nuzzled the back of her neck and she let out a soft moan. “I’m warning you—”

“Good.” His arms tightened around her slim waist. “Warn all you want.”

“This isn’t a good idea.”

“The worst,” he agreed.

“I mean it, Jay.”

“You’re gorgeous in the morning. Well, really, you’re gorgeous at night, too.”

“And you’re incorrigible.”

“I can only hope.” Turning her in his arms, he rested his forehead against hers. Morning sunlight glistened through the windows and the odors of drying herbs and sizzling griddle-cakes mixed with her feminine scents of soap and lavender. His lips found hers and she opened her mouth as easily as a flower to the sun. The bathrobe slid open and his hands slipped around her waist, feeling her bare skin, the weight of her firm breasts unencumbered by a bra.

“Jay,” she whispered as he lowered himself to his knees. She closed her eyes and he kissed first the top, then the underside of one breast before leaving a wet kiss on the nipple. “Oooh,” she whispered and he took the anxious bud into his mouth. He teased its tip with his tongue and teeth and she leaned against the counter for support. With his hands, he parted the skirt of her robe and his fingers skimmed the insides of her legs. She sagged a bit and he reached higher just as she started.

“The breakfast,” she gasped, and looked down at him in horror. “ Oh, no, no, no.” What had she been thinking, letting him kiss and touch and pet her so thoroughly right in the middle of the kitchen on a bright sunny day? The kids could have come downstairs or Mrs. Ellingsworth could have shown up on the back porch and caught them acting like a couple of hot-blooded teenagers. “For the love of Saint Jude,” she whispered, scraping the burning pancakes off the griddle and tossing them into the sink to be devoured by the disposal. “I don’t know what got into me,” she said, pouring the last of the batter onto the griddle.

“Don’t you?” He laughed wickedly and she blushed to the roots of her hair.

“Look, Santini, instead of bothering me—”

“Bothering you? Oh, lady, you don’t know how much more I could bother you if I set my mind to it”